04-12-2010, 02:21 PM
The blistering desert heat, as well as Alexander’s dreaming unconsciousness, was instantly splintered by a thundering roar that ripped through and dismantled an otherwise calm afternoon. Trafford cringed, his half-sleeping visage become contorted and wrinkled in confused frustration; he then rolled over on the hard wooden floor and absentmindedly slapped his palms over his ears. But then it happened again. Walls and foundations shook and even the very sands of the desolate wasteland vibrated at the mercy of the paralyzing bellow; the deafening cacophony yielded all else unimportant.
Alex, blissfully remiss as to the seriousness of his situation, slowly rolled back over and propped himself up onto his elbows, before blinking several times as he adjusted to the bright and unforgiving luminescence of the distant sun.
“Whoa,” Trafford grunted through clenched teeth, the walls around him had taken to violently shaking once more. The vibrations seemed to rhythmically peak every few seconds. There would be a forceful crash, and then a lull, and then another violent oscillation.
Alex shook himself, and tried to ignore the disturbance. But that proved immediately ineffective. He stamped his feet twice and quickly bounced up to his full height, his brow encroaching upon his hazelnut eyes as they furrowed and his generally-chipper-smirk was replaced by a glowering frown.
“God damnit . . . I just want to sleep!” he shouted to no one in particular, and made his way towards the small, window-less opening that faced out into the open desert.
Frankly he didn’t give a shit what was out there; and he didn’t particularly care about the ‘game’ or whatever it was that he was involved in either. He was not out for blood, or vengeance, or any of that noble-nonsense. All he wanted was to go home. And not back to his dingy flat on Green Street in the slums of West City either, no, he had been running for too long; all he wanted was to go back to the Trafford Estate. God only knew how much he hated his fucking father, and his indifferent mother, but he wanted a normal life; maybe he would get a job or finally enroll at university, anything was better then this. Ever since the Omni Corporation had walked into his life over a year ago, everything had gone to shit. He’d been kidnapped countless times, been involved in an ancient racial-war brought into reality by some insane cult, fought in a martial arts tournament, and he’d had his mind high-jacked by computer genius villains – twice. Was a calming in his life too much to ask for? Some men and women were cut out for this hero bullshit. He was not. Hell, he had even met some of those good natured, use-my-freakish abilities-for good people here.
But I’m not like them, Alexander determined. And he wasn’t, he really wasn’t.
Whatever his reasons, he knew that he would have to get ultimately involve himself in whatever this raucous was, as much as he did not want to. As he peered out the window, however, he realized that he probably should have tried harder to go back asleep.
With widened eyes he stared down at the monstrosity below; a giant, filthy beast thrashed to and fro, whipping up small sandstorms as it stamped about and ripped at the desert floor with its long, blade-like talons. He watched as two people narrowly avoided a swipe from its spiked, scaled tail as they attempted to fend off the massive creature. In response, the . . . thing unleashed an ear-piercing roar, bearing its razor-sharp series of enormous fangs.
“Jesus Christ,” Alex muttered as he shook his head. What manner of man could dream up such a monstrosity, and for what purpose? After the initial shock subsided, his expression, once of disbelief and despair, slowly steeled itself with confidence and defiance. He ran his long and bony fingers through his golden-orange locks and allowed a frustrated groan to escape his lips. “Motherfucker, I am so done with this bullshit.”
Trafford pressed his palms against the windowsill and vaulted through the opening, landing awkwardly as the sand shifted against his feet. “Do you hear me, you piece of shit? I’m not doing this anymore. I am so fucking done.”
He wasn’t speaking to anyone in particular, although he was fairly sure that someone was watching. Ultimately though, it didn’t matter; he wanted out. It was as simple as that. And if he had to kill some ludicrously unreal, barbaric fiend, then so be it.
“I’m so sick of this shit,” he continued to mutter phrases such as this as he shrugged off his silken Armani suit jacket and loosened his tie; it was time to get serious. Walking was difficult in the soft, transformative sand – it just seemed to shift every time he stepped forward – but he’d be goddamned if that was going to stop him. He continued to trudge forward, marching down the sandy dune that served as the divide between the open desert, with its sprawling shanty town, and the massive mansion.
As he moved closer to the titanic, hellish beast it became increasingly apparent that he probably should have second-guessed his rashness, but whatever protests his better judgment and reason crafted had been overruled by his raw, bare-boned emotion. Also, as he continued to race forward, he unmasked the identity of the two, previously unknown warriors: the cerulean-haired ice-queen Sage and the desert-dwelling rogue . . . Ander was his name, if he remembered correctly.
“Alex!” the female screamed as he walked by her and towards the creature. Her voice was unmistakable; quivering amidst a cocktail of uncertainty and fear, yet it retained traces of boldness and courage. She was also the only person to kill him, and then cradle his head and talk to him as he faded into oblivion, and that kind of shit will stick with a man.
“Shut the fuck up Sage!” Trafford shouted without hesitation. It sounded harsh, and a little cruel, but he just was not in the mood. Somehow he figured that she would, of all people, understand his unwarranted outburst. Regardless, he immediately whipped around and jabbed his finger into the air as he shouted and explained himself to her. “I’m going home! I’m going to fucking kill this . . . god damned . . . thing! And then I’m going to go home! And I’m going to go to school, and get a job, and have a family, and . . . and,” he paused for a moment out of necessity, he was nearly out of breath, and then continued, “and I’m going to be normal! And there is nothing that - ,”
A thunderous roar emanated from behind him and interrupted his uncharacteristically rage-driven speech. He was seething as his frustrations continually massaged his anger, which was indeed quite uncharacteristic of him.
“And you shut the fuck up too!” He wheeled around and hurled his index finger towards the demonic monstrosity’s opened maw. Alex almost felt guilty as he turned his back on the blue-haired girl, but that remorse was quickly overridden by a cresting wave of pent-up fury. How long had he been this angry? He couldn’t remember, but his life, since his ‘experiment’ at the age of sixteen, had been spotted with lapses of self-hatred that were spawned from his freakish, ungodly curse.
“I’m going to bury you, do you fucking hear me?!”
As Trafford shouted he hurled his free hand in the direction of his foe and a thick veil of sand launched itself towards the beast’s eyes. A sea of miniature explosions detonated around his muzzle and the monster, which simply shook its head and continued to roar, was otherwise unharmed by the feeble attempt.
“Oh, god, that was a bad idea,” Alex whispered, his rage subsiding just enough so that it no longer blinded him to how irrational he was being. The gigantic lizard-creature lifted its menacing hand and stretched its glistening talons, before lashing out towards the young psychokinetic.
Tiny particles of sand ignited beneath his feet as Trafford instinctively launched his body away from the attack, landing several meters away in a cloud of whipped-up sand. The beast bellowed ferociously and, barely catching the action that occurred at the very corner of his vision, the golden-haired street entertainer watched as the desert-dwelling warrior scaled the monstrosity’s scaled spine, while a freezing gust of snow and ice drove into the beast’s disgustingly frightening visage.
“Use the weapons, you fool!”
Alexander whipped his head around as he peeled himself off the ground and dusted off his silken dress pants. A tiny creature, which bore a striking resemblance to the cookie-baking elves that he always saw on television commercials, was jumping up and down and frantically pointing at a large pile of weaponry.
How convenient, Trafford thought to himself amidst a grimacing scowl. But why use just one?
Utilizing his scientifically-manifested abilities, the young psychokinetic tapped into his inner curse and created a mental link between him and a number of melee weapons that sat within the large pile of steel and iron. Lifting both hands, and hoping that the giant lizard that loomed above did not notice him, Alexander summoned forth a fleet of swords. He was unaware how many he had called to him, but they had all obeyed the power of his will.
As the army of sabers, rapiers, scimitars, broadswords and the like surrounded him, he simultaneously withdrew his twin, gold-plated Desert Eagles and prepared to unleash a hellish attack; the way he saw things, the sooner they felled this evil beastie, the sooner they, well he, got to go home.
“Just give me an opening you foul-mouthed whore,” Trafford whispered as the world around him slowly transformed from tan to aureate, and a wall of sand lifted behind him; his weaponry, the fleet of swords, were being caressed by the golden essence of his inner power – tiny tongues of glowing energy licked the sharpened steel blades and wrapped themselves around the ornate hilts.
“Hey, Sage,” Alex shouted towards the damaged girl, who momentarily removed her gaze from the icy tempest that she controlled and turned towards him.
“What?” she bellowed back and braced herself against another unwarranted barrage of angered screams.
“Just tell me where to shoot all this shit,” he responded and nudged his head towards the amassing armaments behind him, “I don’t wanna hurt your boy up there.”
She nodded and stuttered, “O-okay, okay I guess.”
Trafford guessed that she probably was not used to being the de facto leader of their little motley crew.
It took some concentration, but Alex managed to spare enough mental focus to telekinetically finagle a long cigarette from his pant’s pocket and position it into the corner of his mouth, where it immediately became alit. As he inhaled, he leveled his high-caliber handguns the monstrous foe, and, as he did so, the dozens of augmented swords, along with the wall of aureate sand behind him, twitched impatiently as all his mechanisms of war prepared for battle.
There was always a perfect quote for any given situation, and lately those quotes had come from Clint Eastwood; but here, in this moment, Trafford’s mind chose a different source: Bruce Willis.
“Yippee-ki-yay motherfucker.”
Alex, blissfully remiss as to the seriousness of his situation, slowly rolled back over and propped himself up onto his elbows, before blinking several times as he adjusted to the bright and unforgiving luminescence of the distant sun.
“Whoa,” Trafford grunted through clenched teeth, the walls around him had taken to violently shaking once more. The vibrations seemed to rhythmically peak every few seconds. There would be a forceful crash, and then a lull, and then another violent oscillation.
Alex shook himself, and tried to ignore the disturbance. But that proved immediately ineffective. He stamped his feet twice and quickly bounced up to his full height, his brow encroaching upon his hazelnut eyes as they furrowed and his generally-chipper-smirk was replaced by a glowering frown.
“God damnit . . . I just want to sleep!” he shouted to no one in particular, and made his way towards the small, window-less opening that faced out into the open desert.
Frankly he didn’t give a shit what was out there; and he didn’t particularly care about the ‘game’ or whatever it was that he was involved in either. He was not out for blood, or vengeance, or any of that noble-nonsense. All he wanted was to go home. And not back to his dingy flat on Green Street in the slums of West City either, no, he had been running for too long; all he wanted was to go back to the Trafford Estate. God only knew how much he hated his fucking father, and his indifferent mother, but he wanted a normal life; maybe he would get a job or finally enroll at university, anything was better then this. Ever since the Omni Corporation had walked into his life over a year ago, everything had gone to shit. He’d been kidnapped countless times, been involved in an ancient racial-war brought into reality by some insane cult, fought in a martial arts tournament, and he’d had his mind high-jacked by computer genius villains – twice. Was a calming in his life too much to ask for? Some men and women were cut out for this hero bullshit. He was not. Hell, he had even met some of those good natured, use-my-freakish abilities-for good people here.
But I’m not like them, Alexander determined. And he wasn’t, he really wasn’t.
Whatever his reasons, he knew that he would have to get ultimately involve himself in whatever this raucous was, as much as he did not want to. As he peered out the window, however, he realized that he probably should have tried harder to go back asleep.
With widened eyes he stared down at the monstrosity below; a giant, filthy beast thrashed to and fro, whipping up small sandstorms as it stamped about and ripped at the desert floor with its long, blade-like talons. He watched as two people narrowly avoided a swipe from its spiked, scaled tail as they attempted to fend off the massive creature. In response, the . . . thing unleashed an ear-piercing roar, bearing its razor-sharp series of enormous fangs.
“Jesus Christ,” Alex muttered as he shook his head. What manner of man could dream up such a monstrosity, and for what purpose? After the initial shock subsided, his expression, once of disbelief and despair, slowly steeled itself with confidence and defiance. He ran his long and bony fingers through his golden-orange locks and allowed a frustrated groan to escape his lips. “Motherfucker, I am so done with this bullshit.”
Trafford pressed his palms against the windowsill and vaulted through the opening, landing awkwardly as the sand shifted against his feet. “Do you hear me, you piece of shit? I’m not doing this anymore. I am so fucking done.”
He wasn’t speaking to anyone in particular, although he was fairly sure that someone was watching. Ultimately though, it didn’t matter; he wanted out. It was as simple as that. And if he had to kill some ludicrously unreal, barbaric fiend, then so be it.
“I’m so sick of this shit,” he continued to mutter phrases such as this as he shrugged off his silken Armani suit jacket and loosened his tie; it was time to get serious. Walking was difficult in the soft, transformative sand – it just seemed to shift every time he stepped forward – but he’d be goddamned if that was going to stop him. He continued to trudge forward, marching down the sandy dune that served as the divide between the open desert, with its sprawling shanty town, and the massive mansion.
As he moved closer to the titanic, hellish beast it became increasingly apparent that he probably should have second-guessed his rashness, but whatever protests his better judgment and reason crafted had been overruled by his raw, bare-boned emotion. Also, as he continued to race forward, he unmasked the identity of the two, previously unknown warriors: the cerulean-haired ice-queen Sage and the desert-dwelling rogue . . . Ander was his name, if he remembered correctly.
“Alex!” the female screamed as he walked by her and towards the creature. Her voice was unmistakable; quivering amidst a cocktail of uncertainty and fear, yet it retained traces of boldness and courage. She was also the only person to kill him, and then cradle his head and talk to him as he faded into oblivion, and that kind of shit will stick with a man.
“Shut the fuck up Sage!” Trafford shouted without hesitation. It sounded harsh, and a little cruel, but he just was not in the mood. Somehow he figured that she would, of all people, understand his unwarranted outburst. Regardless, he immediately whipped around and jabbed his finger into the air as he shouted and explained himself to her. “I’m going home! I’m going to fucking kill this . . . god damned . . . thing! And then I’m going to go home! And I’m going to go to school, and get a job, and have a family, and . . . and,” he paused for a moment out of necessity, he was nearly out of breath, and then continued, “and I’m going to be normal! And there is nothing that - ,”
A thunderous roar emanated from behind him and interrupted his uncharacteristically rage-driven speech. He was seething as his frustrations continually massaged his anger, which was indeed quite uncharacteristic of him.
“And you shut the fuck up too!” He wheeled around and hurled his index finger towards the demonic monstrosity’s opened maw. Alex almost felt guilty as he turned his back on the blue-haired girl, but that remorse was quickly overridden by a cresting wave of pent-up fury. How long had he been this angry? He couldn’t remember, but his life, since his ‘experiment’ at the age of sixteen, had been spotted with lapses of self-hatred that were spawned from his freakish, ungodly curse.
“I’m going to bury you, do you fucking hear me?!”
As Trafford shouted he hurled his free hand in the direction of his foe and a thick veil of sand launched itself towards the beast’s eyes. A sea of miniature explosions detonated around his muzzle and the monster, which simply shook its head and continued to roar, was otherwise unharmed by the feeble attempt.
“Oh, god, that was a bad idea,” Alex whispered, his rage subsiding just enough so that it no longer blinded him to how irrational he was being. The gigantic lizard-creature lifted its menacing hand and stretched its glistening talons, before lashing out towards the young psychokinetic.
Tiny particles of sand ignited beneath his feet as Trafford instinctively launched his body away from the attack, landing several meters away in a cloud of whipped-up sand. The beast bellowed ferociously and, barely catching the action that occurred at the very corner of his vision, the golden-haired street entertainer watched as the desert-dwelling warrior scaled the monstrosity’s scaled spine, while a freezing gust of snow and ice drove into the beast’s disgustingly frightening visage.
“Use the weapons, you fool!”
Alexander whipped his head around as he peeled himself off the ground and dusted off his silken dress pants. A tiny creature, which bore a striking resemblance to the cookie-baking elves that he always saw on television commercials, was jumping up and down and frantically pointing at a large pile of weaponry.
How convenient, Trafford thought to himself amidst a grimacing scowl. But why use just one?
Utilizing his scientifically-manifested abilities, the young psychokinetic tapped into his inner curse and created a mental link between him and a number of melee weapons that sat within the large pile of steel and iron. Lifting both hands, and hoping that the giant lizard that loomed above did not notice him, Alexander summoned forth a fleet of swords. He was unaware how many he had called to him, but they had all obeyed the power of his will.
As the army of sabers, rapiers, scimitars, broadswords and the like surrounded him, he simultaneously withdrew his twin, gold-plated Desert Eagles and prepared to unleash a hellish attack; the way he saw things, the sooner they felled this evil beastie, the sooner they, well he, got to go home.
“Just give me an opening you foul-mouthed whore,” Trafford whispered as the world around him slowly transformed from tan to aureate, and a wall of sand lifted behind him; his weaponry, the fleet of swords, were being caressed by the golden essence of his inner power – tiny tongues of glowing energy licked the sharpened steel blades and wrapped themselves around the ornate hilts.
“Hey, Sage,” Alex shouted towards the damaged girl, who momentarily removed her gaze from the icy tempest that she controlled and turned towards him.
“What?” she bellowed back and braced herself against another unwarranted barrage of angered screams.
“Just tell me where to shoot all this shit,” he responded and nudged his head towards the amassing armaments behind him, “I don’t wanna hurt your boy up there.”
She nodded and stuttered, “O-okay, okay I guess.”
Trafford guessed that she probably was not used to being the de facto leader of their little motley crew.
It took some concentration, but Alex managed to spare enough mental focus to telekinetically finagle a long cigarette from his pant’s pocket and position it into the corner of his mouth, where it immediately became alit. As he inhaled, he leveled his high-caliber handguns the monstrous foe, and, as he did so, the dozens of augmented swords, along with the wall of aureate sand behind him, twitched impatiently as all his mechanisms of war prepared for battle.
There was always a perfect quote for any given situation, and lately those quotes had come from Clint Eastwood; but here, in this moment, Trafford’s mind chose a different source: Bruce Willis.
“Yippee-ki-yay motherfucker.”
![[Image: alext.jpg]](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v234/waffuru/alext.jpg)